We Have Some Salt Of Our Youth

Every True Man's Apparel Fits Your Thief.

This Senior-junior, Giant-dwarf, Dan Cupid; Regent Of Love-rhymes, Lord Of Folded Arms, The Anointed Sovereign Of Sighs And Groans, Liege Of All Loiterers And Malcontents.

Cry "havoc!" And Let Loose The Dogs Of War, That This Foul Deed Shall Smell Above The Earth With Carrion Men, Groaning For Burial.

Our Rash Faults Make Trivial Price Of Serious Thing We Have, Not Knowing Them Until We Know Their Grave.

How Sweet The Moonlight Sleeps Upon This Bank Here We Will Sit, And Let The Sounds Of Music Creep In Our Ears; Soft Stillness, And The Night Become The Touches Of Sweet Harmony